Bleu frees her hand from my temple. The carriage house and two figures appear. Bleu Jasmine and the woman who’d rubbed a poultice on my forehead. Elise Varon. Bleu Jasmine moves across the room toward her daughter, runs her hands over her hair, and wipes her tears. I cannot decipher their voices, only their loving expressions, as she pulls Orphan Bleu into her arms. Their figures emerge as solid as mine, perhaps some celestial or cosmic energy has given their spectral bodies corporeal forms.
Elise Varon approaches mother and daughter, her face a masterpiece of colorful emotions as Bleu and Orphan Bleu embrace her. Spectral chatter pervades their ethereal space. Their spiritual vibrations disturb instruments sliding on the table with a metal-wooden discordance. Orphan Bleu peers at me with
